The old Neve 8068 soundboard still looked beautiful.
Lansing Morton looked like he was gonna drop dead.
Farris Vinkrin was genuinely worried about Lansing until he remembered there were a couple times in the ’70s when everyone thought Lansing was headed for the 27 Club.
Might have been better off, Farris thought.
He sipped a coffee, laughed at himself. Last time he had been behind the desk for Lansing Morton, Lansing was on the Billboard charts and heroin, there was Wild Turkey in Farris’s styrofoam cup and every last note of every last song was agonized over by label dudes in silk shirts with tiny ponytails hitchhiking on balding heads
Farris attenuated the level on the vocal compressor. Everything else was dialed in. For an audio engineer, it was like babysitting a sleeping kid.
Talented session guys had already laid down everything, some old jazz horn player had come in as a favor to Farris, but the songs had all the appeal of frozen mashed potatoes sitting in a bus tub with a bite out of ‘em.
They were all finished. Lansing just had to sing.
He ended some wispy wannabe rocker about a girl on a boat, a song he’d never be able to play night after night if someone was dumb enough to put him on tour.
Farris figured he’d take five or ten and then finish the last one, Track Eleven, untitled.
“Last one, Farris,” Lansing said.“You wanna take ten, give those pipes a rest?”
“No sir, I wanna knock this one out. If I don’t do it now… I’m gonna play Petunia on her.”
Took Farris a second to realize Petunia was Lansing’s acoustic guitar.
“Sure thing, Lansing.”
“Thanks for coming out of retirement for me, Farris. I needed someone from the old guard. These young cats can be a little…”
“Young?” Farris ventured.
“Too young. Too complicated. Too…doesn’t matter. Last one. One take.”
Lansing grabbed a wooden stool and his old acoustic with the tortoiseshell pick guard.
“As many takes as you need my friend. Thanks for getting me back in the room. It’s been a pleasure and an honor.”
Farris waited for the old analog FX rack to spark in protest because he was lying. It hadn’t been much of either. Sad when guys didn’t know when to take the saddle off the horse and sit on the porch.
Lansing hand-tuned Petunia.
Farris tweaked the compression again.
He was a pro. Even if this record didn’t hit ten downloads, it was gonna sound good.
Lansing nodded, strummed, and began to sing.
It was a farewell song.
Farris had the lyrics in his production notes but hadn’t bothered to read them.
Kinda beautiful, he thought. Kinda touching. The old guy saying goodbye to his fans, Farris supposed,maybe he wouldn’t embarrass himself and try to tour, try to do the county fair circuit. Maybe this record was simply goodbye.
Farris sipped his coffee, gave a glance to the ProTools monitor mounted near the old Neve.
Lansing was really getting into his guitar playing, his voice was cracking, they’d have to run a second take, some punch-ins at the very least, but the song had broken through Farris’s jade and he was actually tapping his foot to it.
Lansing held the last note in the word Goodbye, raked his pick across Petunia then muted the strings with the heel of his hand.
“Great one, Lansing,” Farris said through the talk back mic, “that one’s a winner but the take ain’t a keeper. Relax for twenty, I’ll have Roscoe grab you a hot tea and honey and–”
“Nope, that’s it. I’m done. That’s the take.”
Twisting a gold pinkie ring Patti Labelle had given him in the ’80s, Farris took a diplomat’s breath, then spewed a rock n roll reaction.
“It’s the only song you got here worth a shit, Lansing! If my name is gonna be on this record, you’re gonna-”
Lansing backhand swatted the pantyhose pop filter in front of the Neuman mic and pointed at Farris in the control room.
“Your name doesn’t have to be on the record. And I know it’s a good song. My nephew wrote it about kicking Oxycontin.”
Farris ran his hand through his hair like it was still long and luxurious and not short and gray.
“Beautiful, Lansing, that you’re doing your nephew’s song. If he was here right now, he’d probably want you to lay it down right. In fact, if he’s in the Chicagoland area, he’s welcome to come in and sing it with you.”
Lansing flipped his pick inside Petunia’s soundhole.
“He’s dead. He didn’t stay clean. He can’t sing anymore. Never really could, to be honest. But he thought second takes were phony. Most of these kids like electronic crap, DJs, computer-generated garbage. He was a real rocker. And he hated second takes. No punch-ins, no nothin.”
Farris hung his head, thought about it.
He swallowed, flashing back to all the douchey, money-grubbing things he had heard come out of label executive’s mouths, guys who couldn’t hold a kazoo without dropping it.
“Well, it’s a great song. I’ll run a little mix magic on it and–”
“No, nothing. Dry and raw.”
“Lansing, you can’t release–”
“I can do whatever the fuck I want. Because I’m Lansing Morton, I have three Grammys and five American Music Awards, I’m 69 years old, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”
Farris sat down at the board, finished his coffee, cracked his knuckles and looked at the has-been rocker.
“You’re gonna re-record it, Lansing. Because I’m Farris Vinkrin, I have twelve gold records, one of ‘em yours, two platinums, an ASCAP lifetime achievement award, late-stage cirrhosis, and I just erased take one.”
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Photo Courtesy Getty Images
I love the line "label dudes in silk shirts with tiny ponytails hitchhiking on balding heads." Haha!
I could not see where this was going and that made it a great ride. the last line had me laugh out loud.